


lovely

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, geralt is a slightly less stupid dumbass but dont let that trick you, its not size kink but it is size kink!, jaskier is a dumbass, porn ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22220494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: Jaskier hadn’t intended to end the night with Geralt’s thumb in his mouth, it should be said.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 165
Kudos: 2336
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	lovely

**Author's Note:**

> ive never written anything nsfw before. also if i think about geralt and jaskier for more than, like, five minutes in a row my eyes will pop. its about the dynamics.... its about the tenderness. its about two fucking idiots. its about me projecting onto jaskier

Geralt has his thumb in Jaskier’s mouth. 

Which- it’s surprisingly pleasant, as things go. It’s a nice thumb, all sword callous-rough and strangely gentle, more exploratory than anything. It tastes of sweat, which wouldn’t be nice generally but is nice right now, because Geralt’s thumb is in Jaskier’s mouth and Geralt’s thumb tastes of sweat and Geralt’s thumb is stroking, curiously, over the middle of his tongue. Over, and over, and over again, like he’s soothing a cat, except with his thumb in Jaskier’s mouth, and- 

Backing up. 

Jaskier hadn’t intended to end the night with Geralt’s thumb in his mouth, it should be said. He’d intended to maybe end up with _something_ in his mouth, sure- a tit, a cock, he’s not exactly picky- but really, he’d only been wanting to get a bath and then go down to pay for the room another night, so they could sleep in an actual room instead of on the damn ground as _always_. (Jaskier thinks, privately, that the Witcher _likes_ sleeping on the ground, because he’s dramatic and brooding, and it’s probably something about the comfort of the wilderness and the stars being his only ceiling or whatever goes on in that head of his, but personally _he_ likes sleeping in a bed, like a normal person, and eating proper stew instead of _another_ unsalted hare, and perhaps getting the company of a lovely bedfellow instead of sort of staring longingly across the fire at the unattainable. It’s nice enough for his songs, of course, but in practice it’s a bit of an ache in his chest and Jaskier is a sucker for creature comforts like happiness.)

He’s getting off track again. The way he runs his mouth is both a blessing and a curse, he likes to say, in that it’s a curse on everyone in his general vicinity and great fun for him. Embellishments make the story, and no one wants to hear a dramatic tale of love and loss without, you know, a bit of love and loss. Geralt can go into the belly of a beast and come out dripping with blood and digestive juices all he wants, and Jaskier can add spice, and that’s how they work. A blessing indeed! 

He’s not talking now, because of the thumb in his mouth. And he’s still off track. Back to it, from the beginning. 

They’d been traveling for _ages_ , and that’s not just the blisters on Jaskier’s feet talking- Geralt, even, was starting to look rough around edges, and was growing in just enough of an actual beard that Jaskier had to avoid looking at him for his own peace of mind. 

(“I can handle a little scruff, but this is too much,” he informs him, haughtily. 

“Hmm.”

That’s that, then.)

Even Roach, normally entirely unflappable, is sort of plodding. But there’s been no towns for ages, and no coins for longer, and Jaskier’s belly twists around the longing for something that’s not a stringy, undersized rabbit. He’s too tired to do anything but pick at his lute, and his composing is simply embarrassing. What rhymes with five hundred fucking rocks in his shoes? He’s sure he could normally think of a thousand things, but right now he’s drawing a blank. A logical conclusion can be drawn from all this. 

“i’m probably dying.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. It’s fucking rude, is what it is. Here Jaskier is, his only friend in the entire world, probably, and he’s dying, and-

“Really, I am,” Jaskier insists, feebly. “I can’t feel my _toes_ , Geralt. I’m starving. I truly-” here he almost says ‘just go on, leave me here to die’, but then he remembers the Witcher most likely will. Bloody ass. “I can’t feel my toes,” he repeats, instead, putting all the incredible, soulful desolation he feels into his voice. It’s really rather lovely, when he thinks about it, almost worthy of a song, perhaps- the Witcher, riding on alone, his bard left behind to starve because of the blisters popping in his boots. 

Maybe not, then. He strums an unhappy chord. Geralt hums again, and doesn’t even have the decency to make it _sound_ sympathetic. 

They walk on. Plod on, Jaskier corrects himself, because that sounds much more... well, it adds a certain something, at least. He should write it down, maybe. Plodding versus walking versus marching is important, is what it is, and here he goes _again_ , losing his train of thought. He’s dying. Another chord is plucked out, and then he tunes a string, and then after that he tries hard to glare a hole in Geralt’s stupid upright back and stupid broad shoulders. 

“There’s a town a couple miles ahead,” Geralt offers eventually, sounding exactly as unaffected as he always does, and Jaskier could _cry_. 

-

The town’s a lovely town, in that it is a town with real human people in it, and the inn is lovely by the same criteria. Jaskier is adept at ignoring the shit-and-sweat-stink of a tavern and so he jumps immediately, cheerily into the crowd, forgetting about his blisters and aches to rouse everyone up from their ale into a particularly stirring ballad starring a princess and her lover the knight. When everyone’s singing, when he’s on top of a table and there are fifty pairs of eyes fixed on him, when he can look around the room and beam and have that smile returned- fuck, he lives for it. There’s nothing so exhilarating as being right in the middle of it all, drawing people’s eyes and hands and lust, Geralt a steady, solid lump in the corner- he can’t imagine anything so warm and lovely right in his chest. He’d sing about it, but people are generally into the monster-killing sort of songs, so he launches into one of those. A drowner that Geralt had, in reality, dispatched in maybe five minutes, but in his song it’s deliciously harrowing. 

He gets lost in it. He always does. People buy him ale and he drinks and when he’s all finished up and there’s a cheerful roar in the inn he goes back to Geralt’s side, as always. He’s alone at the table, because there’s no coin, so Jaskier in the spirit of generosity plunks down his full purse and then himself in front of him. He’s chattering on about something, because that’s what he does, and Geralt’s sort of humming vaguely, because that’s what _he_ does, and Jaskier is struck, suddenly, by how entirely _much_ he loves him. 

It stops him in his tracks. 

Jaskier is a romantic. He’s always been a romantic, and he’s fallen in love with every person he’s ever been with and many more besides. He loves life and he loves love and he’d known, from the moment he’d fallen in with Geralt, that there’d be a lovely little bit of tragic romance to sprinkle into his songs, because Jaskier always sprinkles tragic romance into his songs. For all his love, he’d never thought there’d be a person he _loved_. Properly, for real, in a way that makes his stomach hurt a bit. And if he _had_ , he wouldn’t think it was a witcher, of all people, and Geralt besides. His mouth is still open- he closes it, slowly, takes his tankard of ale, drains it. Tries to think past that ache in his belly. 

Nothing has to change, and so nothing will change. 

He fishes a coin from his purse, buys a room to share, and goes to sleep. 

-

They’re to stay for a few days, because Geralt’s found a monster. 

“How do you always find a monster,” he asks, without really asking, and Geralt grunts, and Jaskier sighs and resigns himself to dumping a puddle out of his boots when they get back. It’s pouring out, and this monster just so happens to live in a lake, because- yeah, they always do. Not so great for his songs, or for his shoes, or for his hair, which frizzes terribly when it dries, but Geralt beckons him without a glance backwards and so Jaskier trots to keep up with the Witcher and his horse. 

It’s a drowner, as always. Jaskier asked once if they were drowned men and Geralt had just snorted at him and told him not to get too close to the water, which suits him just fine. He finds out from a very pretty man that they’re called drowners because they drown people, which makes sense but invalidates a particularly stirring verse from the ballad he was writing, and that’s tragic, so he glares at the lake- pond, really, it’s small and greenish and scummy looking- as he sits down on a stump to watch. 

The stump squishes. 

Jaskier squishes, as well. He’s sodden to his core. He’d glad his lute is safe and dry in their room, because he _knows_ it’d be ruined, but his fingers itch to pluck out a tune and he hums out something disjointed to appease them. Geralt, standing still and silent over the water, twists to glare at him for a moment, and the pond gives an ominous little ripple and then erupts and it gets a bit messy. 

It’s always messy, obviously, because monsters aren’t generally into hygiene and Geralt isn’t generally into being neat, but there’s pond scum _everywhere_ this time and Geralt had cut the thing’s throat, Jaskier had seen it, but it was like the whole thing _exploded_ anyway. There’s blood all over his face, in his hair, on his stupid soggy doublet. Some rotten tasting blood drips into his open mouth and when he gags it back out it dribbles onto his shoe. Geralt, of course, looks like he’d rubbed the things insides all over him. Jaskier spends a few moments pouting, then sort of shakes himself. 

“I call first bath.” 

Geralt pauses in wiping off his sword on what looks like maybe the thing’s head to glance up at him. “You can’t call first bath.” This is, of course, what Jaskier’s been waiting for. He has an argument. He has a _plan_. 

See, baths are tricky. They’ve bathed together once or twice, when the tub is large enough, and while Geralt doesn’t seem like he could care less it makes Jaskier’s heart go all crazy and he _knows_ that the Witcher can hear heartbeats, so after last night’s realization that’s definitely out. They can’t really afford to buy two baths, because that’s expensive and it’d take ages. So bathing first means getting clean water, and bathing second means you’re fucked and the water’s cold.

Jaskier draws himself up to his full height and puffs out his chest. “Listen,” he says, sucking in a deep breath. “I-”

“No,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier pauses for maybe half a second, then forges on. “Firstly, I’m not as disgusting as you are. Secondly, you take-”

“No.” 

“-you take ages in the bath, really, Witcher, we both know it, you take _forever_. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? And, again, might I bring our attention back to how absolutely drenched you are in, what, shit? I don’t want to bathe in shit. I’ve got an artistic smattering, you might say, of arterial spray, that’s- I mean, it’s basically nothing. It’s-”

Geralt glares. Jaskier shuts up, and then he opens his mouth again because that’s who he is as a person. And because he can’t sit in Geralt’s disgusting bath water, and he can’t share with Geralt. His stupid, silly heart wouldn’t be able to take it, and besides, that’s practically not even a bath. It’s just being left to soak in drowner broth. 

“I really- I am going to. I’m going to take first bath.”

-

Geralt takes first bath. Jaskier drips onto the floor and glares as loudly and sullenly as he can in the opposite direction. There’s silence for a long while, aside from the gentle sloshing of the bath and the tap tap tap of him dripping on the floor, and then Geralt sighs, loudly. Jaskier glances over, despite himself, and those yellow cat’s eyes are narrowed right at him, and he crosses his arms a little further and does his best to glare back. Could he write a song about this? About the way the Witcher’s eyes are shining gold in this light, and his hair is washed clean of blood and sits fair and wet against his rough cheeks and wide shoulders, about the flicker of the candlelight as it glistens on his arms and chest, about- 

He sighs, gusty and despairing and dramatic, casts his eyes to the ceiling, does his best to not think about Geralt, naked in the tub next to him, or the water in that tub. He wipes his hands ineffectively on the bed behind him, picks up his lute, plays a chord. 

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier lets loose a gusty sigh and looks over again. “What is it, Witcher, because if you _hadn’t_ noticed I am _trying_ to mope-” He cuts himself off, because Geralt is still looking at him, all appraising and calculating like he gets. Jaskier swallows, chews his cheek for a moment. “Uh. I mean, of course, yes, Geralt?” 

Those eyes. “Get in the tub.” 

He _doesn’t_ squeak, really. It’s a manful sort of- well, it’s a bit of a hiccup, really, but it’s not a squeak. “I- well, Geralt, you see-” He trails off. They’ve shared a bath before, is the damn thing, and the tub is plenty big, and it’d be fucking odd if he refused, is what it would be. Geralt’s an idiot but he’s a smart idiot with scary good instincts and if Jaskier started acting all funny, he’d be found out. And Geralt gets funny about emotions, so Jaskier’d probably have to go his own merry way, and that _really_ isn’t one for the songs. Plus he doesn’t want- well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. 

So he strips, half turned away, and climbs into the bath. 

The water’s still warm and their legs are all pressed together. Jaskier knows Geralt’s trying to be nice- he doesn’t really like getting this close to people unless he’s fucking them or killing them, but sometimes he makes an awkward sort of effort. He’d appreciate it, really, if it didn’t involve being naked in the bath with him after he’d just figured out his romantic feelings were- well, still romantic, obviously, but for real. A proper crush, instead of a ‘you’re pretty, I’m pretty’ thing. But Geralt’s trying to be nice, and Jaskier’s trying to be normal, so he beings to chatter about something. Maybe his ruined doublet, or how his feet still hurt, or the lovely lady he saw last night while playing-

Geralt sticks his thumb in his mouth. 

Jaskier is so entirely, completely blindsided that he stop talking and simply gapes up at him. 

Geralt’s _thumb_ is in his _mouth_. Just sort of resting there on his tongue. Jaskier goes cross-eyed trying to look at it, and then follows that arm up to that face, and Geralt has one eyebrow raised and his eyes narrowed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, and Jaskier doesn’t even _mean_ to do it, it’s entirely instinctual, but he closes his lips around it and sucks. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise, and runs the pad of his thumb along the crease of his tongue, and Jaskier still hasn’t said a word. He’s entirely poleaxed. 

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been this quiet,” Geralt says, conversationally, “except when you’re sleeping.”

A rush of blood to Jaskier’s cheeks. He opens his mouth and Geralt presses a little more firmly down on his tongue, so he closes it again and starts back up with his stupid blinking. He doesn’t know what’s happening except Geralt looks faintly pleased and Jaskier’s heart is going fast as a rabbit and Geralt’s thumb is in his mouth, again, had he mentioned? 

So he does a little bit of review, and when he comes back to the now he’s just as entirely confused. His tongue is rubbing absently over the pad of his finger, and he’s sure his whole body is red, and this time when he opens his mouth he gets out an actual sentence. It’s a little garbled. 

“What the fuck is going on? Is this a dream?” 

Geralt looks faintly bemused, presumably by the second part. “I wanted to see if you’d stop talking,” he says, eventually. “And you’re nice to look at, like this.” 

Okay, Jaskier can work with that. Probably. Does that mean sex? The Witcher is weird, is the thing, and usually people putting their fingers in his mouth means sex, but Geralt is different, and- 

He risks a glance downward, and no, yeah, this definitely means sex. Which raises the question of why, and how, and what the fuck, but those are questions that he’s having in a very small part of the back of his mind because right now he’s mostly focused on, you know. Kissing Geralt, or less romantically getting that fucking cock in him somehow. Somehow because by all the gods, Geralt, and because it seems impossible in the metaphorical sense, like in the why me sense, and going back to the for fuck’s sake _come_ _on_ , at some point that seems excessive. There’s a long moment when Jaskier looks back up that they just blink at each other. 

Then he’s scrambling forward, being hauled forward, _whatever_ , and their lips are smashed together, teeth clicking. 

The next half hour of his life is both over in a moment and a lovely eternity. 

Flashes- the look on Geralt’s face when he takes his dick down his throat, half savage rapture. Sinking his teeth into that strong shoulder. Hands spanning across his hips, pressing him down into the bed. The burn of stubble on the inside of his thighs. Babbling _something_ and being given a look that he’d almost call fond. Being stretched, stretched, stretched. 

When Geralt flops down- not on top of him, thank god, but slightly to his left- and they’ve had a moment to catch their breath, Jaskier decides he’s been quiet enough. Or, you know, he hasn’t been really _quiet_ , but he’s been compliant, which pretty much rhymes. 

“Geralt,” he begins, and Geralt groans. He forges on. “Geralt, not that that wasn’t lovely, because it was, but- what the fuck?” 

There’s silence from beside him for a long moment- Jaskier blinks sleepily, thinks he might not get an answer. Typical of him, really. Then:

“I wanted to.” 

Jaskier blinks. That’s so bloody typical. “You what?”

“I wanted to. You- hmm.” Geralt looks, again, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, brow furrowed. “I like to look at you. Perhaps I’d want to taste you. Life is shit and I like you. You like me too.” 

Trust fucking Geralt. Trust him to break it down like that, clipped sentences, no damn elaboration. Ah, well. Jaskier is here, after all, for the embellishments. He rolls into the Witcher’s side. 

“How did you _know_ I liked you? What if, you know, you’d just stuck your finger in my mouth and I spit it out? What if-”

“You didn’t.”

Well. Jaskier has to concede that. “But what _if_ , though?” 

Geralt sighs, and Geralt indulges him. A feature of tonight, it seems, and one Jaskier will be sure to squeeze every last drop out of. “I guess I’d take my thumb out of your mouth.” 

He starts to snort, and once he’s started he can’t stop, until he’s laughing helplessly into Geralt’s chest. And everything, just in this moment, is as lovely as a song. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing ive ever written in one go and i did not edit. leave a comment if u liked it xoxo
> 
> ALSO shoot me a prompt or smth on tumblr at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com i will worship the ground you stand on


End file.
